


Fifty silver bells and nine

by fennishjournal (Shimi)



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Case Fic, Christmas, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shimi/pseuds/fennishjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Just now, when I was on my way over, Wen Hui called again to tell me that she had just got a second corpse from the same hospital. Apparently, a young woman in the same ward just dropped dead as well. And she had been exhibiting the same symptoms: Flashbacks, hallucinations but none of the other symptoms associated with PTSD or psychosis.” Dr Walid looked at Nightingale questioningly. “Ring any bells?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Nightingale frowned. “I can't say it does, no. But we'd better check both bodies for vestigia tomorrow and have a look around the hospital.”</i></p><p> </p><p> <br/>A Christmas casefic set post-Broken Homes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eli/gifts).



“Ah,” Dr Walid said, “I see we've arrived at the California school of cooking.” Molly smiled, baring her sharp teeth at him gently, as she set down a “salad” of sliced artichoke hearts and grapefruit slices in olive oil.

“ _Chez Panisse_ ,” I explained, “though I doubt they ever served broccoli rape pizza with chopped liver.”

“Thank you, Molly,” Nightingale said, ever the gallant gentleman, “this is absolutely delicious,” and he really did spear up the pink and green slices with gusto. It must be a joy, I thought not for the first time, to feed a man who had gone through the British boarding school system of culinary education.

These regular monthly dinners had become a fixture after I'd had a building collapse under me and Leslie had left us to become a minion of the Faceless Man. All three of us had felt the chill of that even if it had been only me who had been tasered in the back. Molly's cooking and lighthearted conversation about possible ways of measuring  _vestigia_ , the numerous ways in which magic can kill people, and Latin grimoires, had become our own personal bonding ritual. 

This time, for a special treat, there was going to be a magical corpse or two  after dinner .

“So, Peter,” Dr Walid asked, “are they done grilling you yet?”

When your partner and best friend defects from the force, your superior officers and internal review tend to take a sudden and painful interest in all areas of your life. By now it was likely that, between daily interrogation and psychological tests, the Met actually did know me better than my own mother. And that really was saying something.

I grimaced. “Not quite yet, no. At least they seem convinced by now that I'm not actually a follower of the Faceless Man myself.” The thinly veiled insinuations that Leslie had led me over to the dark side by my dick had been quite insulting. They ' d also stopped rather abruptly after a day or two, as if someone high up had come down hard on those doing the questioning. 

Considering Nightingale's stony face whenever the subject came up, I had a certain suspicion as to who that might 've been. Nightingale gets oddly protective at the strangest times.

Dr Walid just nodded very seriously. “I still worry that I'm partly to blame for the whole situation,” he admitted. “I don't think I took her anxiety about how slowly her healing process was progressing quite as seriously as I should have. At the very least I should have pushed her harder to accept regular counseling.”

Nightingale's smile had a bitter touch. “I don't think any of us realised just how vulnerable Leslie really was,” he said ruefully, “she was awfully good at hiding it.”

“Yeah,” I said hoarsely. I put my fork aside, the lump in my throat having effectively absorbed my appetite for duck breast and fennel gratin. It was more than a sore spot that even I hadn't realised what was going on in Leslie's head.

There was a bit of an awkward silence while I tried to swallow my feelings and Nightingale and Dr Walid pretended not to notice.

“Right,” Nightingale finally said after he and Dr Walid had finished the jam roly-poly (Molly's approach to dessert having staid comfortingly conservative), “let's move and then you can tell us all about this new case, Abdul.”

Because living in the Folly, in some ways, was eerily similar to inhabiting a Jane Austen novel, we actually did pick up our glasses and moved to the Drawing Room right next to the library. 

The Drawing room had a big old fireplace with comfortable leather armchairs grouped around it and was generally one of the warmer rooms in the Folly.  I liked it and thought of it as a bit of a cozy nest. Even today I could feel the warmth and the reassuring depth of the armchairs leech some of the tension out of my body.

Which was why I jumped about a foot in the air and sloshed port all over me when Zach  Palmer's head suddenly appeared over my left shoulder.

“Evening gents,” he said pretending to doff his cap. 

“Bloody hell,” I demanded when I'd managed to re-start my heart, “how the fuck did you get in here?” 

Nightingale normally reprimands me for swearing when surprised but seeing how intensely and suspiciously he was eying Zach, he didn't seem to give a toss this time. We'd all become a bit touchy about unannounced guests suddenly turning up in our headquarters now we had our very own rogue magician on the loose.

“Answer him!” Nightingale ordered sharply,

Zach looked shifty, as per usual, but also a tad annoyed. “Molly let me in, didn't she? Need to do a spot of research,” he explained with a languid wave of his hand at the sliding doors to the library. 

Nightingale and I shared a concerned glance. Molly was usually extremely conscientious about announcing visitors and brutally protective of the Folly's inner rooms. That she ' d simply let Zach wander in, who was, after all, under suspicion of being in contact with Leslie, was more than a little worrying.

“As per _ancient custom_ ,” Zach explained in an annoyed tone when it became obvious we wouldn't let him off the hook that easily. “ _To give shelter and assistance to those in need whether by sword, provisions or knowledge,_ ekcetera, ekcetera.” He sounded as if he was quoting something and Nightingale briefly looked as if he had bit a lemon. 

Then he visibly relaxed his stance  and nodded  and  I rolled my eyes. “You've got to be kidding me!  _Another_ ancient custom nobody bothered to bloody well tell me about? Just how many of the damn things  _are_ there?” My guv'nor's reluctance to keep me in the loop with regard to our various alliances and treaties with diverse supernatural entities had become a bit of a sore point lately.

“It really _is_ just a bit of research,” Zach said ag ain as he gestured towards the library, “there's a bit of a....family situation. They need my help.” His expression had become pleading and he now looked like Toby when there were sausages for breakfast.

“You have family?” I asked incredulously but Zach just shot me a dirty look.

“What kind of situation?” Nightingale wanted to know and Zach sighed.

“Look, it's fae business, ok? I can't really go around telling the filth.”

“You can if you want to read our books,” I said crossing my arms in my best bouncer impression, “ _quid pro_ bloody _quo,_ mate.”

Dr Walid was watching the confrontation unfold from one of the armchairs. He seemed rather unperturbed. But then, it wasn't his home that had just been invaded by the fae's equivalent of the no-good, junkie cousin, who tends to make away with the silverware.

“Fine, fine!” Zach flopped down into one of the armchairs like a puppet whose strings had turned out to be imaginary. “Look,” he said, “they've got a door that's stuck, OK?”

“What, and you're the resident fairy handyman?”

Zach shot me a poisonous glare. “Yeah, actually, as a matter of fact I am!”

Nightingale studied Zach silently for a moment and then heaved a sigh. “Right then,” he said, “you can look.  _As per ancient custom_ . Just don't take anything home and remember, the custom goes both ways.” His voice became just a tad menacing as he quoted “ _He who abuses his guest-right, his life shall be forfeit from one end of the earth to another._ ”

Zach sprang to his feet again, gave a deep theatrical bow and rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, don't worry about it. You won't even know I'm here.”

“I doubt it,” Nightingale muttered as we watched Zach slink away into the stacks. “And I'll definitely have a word with Molly.”

“Right,” he said then, turning to face Dr Walid, “Abdul, why don't you tell us about that autopsy.”

I sat down as well and took out my notebook. With Zach running around scattering background magic I wasn't going to risk our digital voice recorder.

“Well,” Dr Walid said thoughtfully, “There might be more than one case, actually. Today, around 6 PM, I got a call from my friend Wen Hui who wanted me to stop by her forensic lab and take a look at the brain of a young man who had apparently dropped dead without any apparent cause. He was 28, white and in excellent health. His brain showed strong evidence of hyperthaumaturgical degradation.”

“Do you think he was a practitioner?” I asked. There had been more and more of them coming out of the woodworks lately and it was causing no end of trouble.

“I really don't think so,” said Dr Walid, “He isn't on our list of Little Crocodiles and I was able to administer our questionnaire to his sister, who he was living with before he was admitted to Highgate Mental Health Centre. There are no signs whatsoever that Stephen Eggles knew anything at all about magic or the occult.”

“He was a patient at Highgate Mental Health Centre?” Nightingale asked.

Dr Walid nodded. “Admitted four weeks previously because of flashbacks and hallucinations that didn't conform to any known pattern. And just now, when I was on my way over, Wen Hui called again to tell me that she had just got a second corpse from the same hospital. Apparently, a young woman in the same ward just dropped dead as well. And she had been exhibiting the same symptoms: Flashbacks, hallucinations but none of the other symptoms associated with PTSD or psychosis.”

He looked at Nightingale questioningly. “Ring any bells?”

Nightingale frowned. “I can't say it does, no. But we'd better check both bodies for  _vestigia_ tomorrow and have a look around the hospital.”

I managed to restrain myself from whooping with delight. Anything, really anything is better than sitting around waiting to be questioned again by internal review.

  
  


When we left the Drawing Room, I tried to check in on Zach but only found one of our reference desks piled high with works on Faerie and a suspicious absence of any actual fae. Except for Molly, that is, who seemed to be tidying the books away.

“Did you really let him in?” I asked. Molly just narrowed her eyes at me and cocked her head. As this coincided with a wave of clammy dread sweeping over me, I decided to leave her interrogation to Nightingale. The fae are a strange lot and I was having enough nightmares without Molly messing with my head, too. 

Instead I simply entered this evening's information into our very own database and updated the file in which I had started to record all our various treaties and deals with the Rivers, the quiet people and other not-quite-human citizens. Nightingale tended to make vague noises when I asked him about previous records but hadn't yet produced an exhaustive list.

I tried to put off going to bed as long as I could but when I started seeing double, I bowed to the inevitable. 

The nightmares had gotten less frequent and I was pathetically grateful that they had gotten less noisy, too. At least these days I wasn't usually shaken awake by my concerned boss who had heard me scream from all the way across the building and had come to rescue me in his dressing gown. I could do without Nightingale patting me on the shoulder and handing me a glass of water with a disconcertingly fatherly  air .

  
  


_This time Leslie was with me at the top of Skygarden Tower and the wind was whipping at her mask as she stood shoulder to shoulder with the Faceless Man._

“ _Come with us!” Leslie demanded and stretched out her hand. “It's all your fault in the first place!”_

_I could feel the tower shaking under ou_ _r_ _feet as charge after charge detonated._

_I shook my head dumbly but Leslie took a step in my direction. “I'd never have lost my face if it wasn't for you and your bloody ghosts!” She screamed. “At least now you can help fix me!”_

_She was close enough to touch now but just before her outstretched hand could grab me, I took a step backwards and bumped right into Beverly Brook._

_She was standing behind me, arms crossed across her chest and head cocked to the side. As her eyes narrowed she seemed more real than anything else around me._

“ _What the hell do you think you're playing at?” She asked. “Guilt dreams? This isn't going to solve anything.”_

_And then the roof collapsed under me and I was falling, falling, concrete pieces smashing into me and bruising my body, the wind driving any air out of my lungs, no Faceless Man there to break my fall this time and –_

  
  


I woke up screaming but at least this time I didn't have to look whoever had placed the glass of water on my bedside table in the eye.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, after my daily regime of dog-walking and practicing my  _formae_ , Nightingale and I took the Jag to examine our two corpses for  _vestigia_ .

Dr. Ma, a small Chinese woman in her forties, led us into the cool morgue that smelled slightly of antiseptic. “Dr Walid did the second autopsy first thing this morning,” she explained, “he said the brain looked exactly the same as the first victim's.”

Hyperthaumaturgical degradation, I thought. Otherwise, apparently, Catrina Jenkins had been in wonderful health, just like Stephen Eggles.

Nightingale and I did our usual disgusting ritual of getting close enough to the corpses that a necrophiliac kiss was only one unfortunate stumbling accident away. In both cases there was a faint smell of institutional floor polish but the overarching impression was of a nighttime forest, complete with rustling and the strong smell of conifers and snow. Also, a slight hint of Christmas cake. 

“Christmas party in the woods?” I wondered even though the temperatures made it rather unlikely. We'd had to de-ice the Jags ancient door-locks today after all.

Nightingale looked thou ghtful. “Possibly,” he allowed. “Maybe the y spent time in a park that has...special properties.”

I nodded. Old buildings and woods were prime spots for collecting naturally occurring  _vestigia_ . Maybe our two victims had stepped into a puddle of background magic their brains hadn't been prepared for.

We made our way to Highgate Mental Health Centre to find out.

  
  


  
  


“So,” I asked as we threaded our way through the stop-and-go traffic that is London during commuting hours, “have you talked to Molly yet?”

Nightingale sighed. “As far as I can tell, she did let Zach in. And he  _is_ right, Peter, there really is an ancient custom between us and the fae of granting assistance in times of need. As long as Zach doesn't abuse his visitor status to harm us, he is entitled to three nights in our guest rooms, all the food he can eat and whatever other assistance he needs. Which seems to be the library at present.”

“Did Molly say anything about that open door?”

Nightingale shook his head. “I have to say she wasn't very forthcoming about the whole thing. And you know Molly, once she's decided not to talk about something all the tea in China won't make her change her mind.”

“This is weird,” I said, “I really didn't think she liked Zach but it almost seems like she is protecting him.”

“Well,” Nightingale reminded me, “they _are_ both fae.”

“You think they're family?”

He grimaced. “Not exactly. Molly and Zach are both fae but from very different branches of that family tree. I guess it's still possible they're both affected by whatever issue he is researching, though.”

And then we had arrived at Highgate Mental Health Centre and had to postpone our discussion of different kinds of fairies and how they got their doors unstuck in case anyone overheard us and decided we needed to stay and have our medication adjusted.

The Centre was a rather charmless brick building on a steep hill. Both Stephen Eggles and Catrina Jenkins had been patients in the “Sapphire” ward and the resident psychiatrist was already waiting for us at the door.

“Melinda Myers,” she said shaking our hands, “Dr Walid informed me you were coming.” 

Dr Myers was a middle-aged black woman with immaculate make-up and short-cropped hair. As she led us through the corridors of Sapphire ward, she kept greeting patients and nurses alike with a friendly smile but firmly deflected any questions about our presence.

“The patients are quite shook up about the deaths,” she explained once we had reached her office, “I'd like to avoid further excitement by keeping your presence here incognito, if that's possible.”

Neither Nightingale nor I were stupid enough to promise anything of the sort but we did assure her we would try to be as unobtrusive and non-threatening as possible.

“So,” Nightingale said when we had been offered tea and I had taken up position in a corner and with a notebook on my knee, “tell us about Stephen Eggles and Catrina Jenkins.”

Dr Myers pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Mr Eggles was admitted two weeks ago and was brought in by his younger sister Leslie,” she explained as I gave an involuntary twitch. “It was a voluntary admission because both he and his family had become concerned with what they described as 'flashbacks' and by his tendency to talk to dragons and tree nymphs.”

Nightingale raised an eyebrow and Dr Myers shrugged. “It's not that uncommon for our patients to be seeing fairies or talking to gods but this case was....different.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one thing Mr Eggles was neither particularly pleased nor at all frightened by what he was seeing. He simply seemed....annoyed. Additionally, he was very aware of just how odd his perceptions were and showed absolutely no signs of cognitive or verbal disintegration. In short, he didn't seem psychotic as such but he was clearly hallucinating very vividly and on a subject matter he did not usually engage with.”

“And that is unusual?”

“Oh yes. Psychosis might seem like chaos but it is usually....individual chaos. The symbolism might not be intelligible to anybody else but at least the patient usually has some connection to what they see and hear.”

Nightingale nodded. “I see. And can you tell us a little more about the flashbacks? I believe they preceded the hallucinations?”

Dr Myers pursed her lips again and picked up a little bronze statue from her desk, twisting it between her fingers. “As I said,” she continued, “ 'flashbacks' is a term the family used, not us. Apparently Mr Eggles did re-experience scenes from his past very vividly and in a kind of dissociative state that made these memories more real to him than his actual surroundings. The odd thing is, though, that these weren't painful or frightening memories at all. Rather, he re-experienced having spirited debates with a good friend or the taste of his favourite ice-cream. And then – ” She hesitated and fixed first me and then Nightingale with a thoughtful look. “You're the people who deal with the really weird stuff, aren't you?”

That is always a bit of an awkward moment. Technically, people outside the Met aren't really supposed to know about us but anyone who asks like that really already knows and so - 

“Yes, ma'am,” I said finally, “we usually do.”

She mustered us for a moment longer and then let out a breath and said, “Well, the thing is: After the 'flashbacks', for a lack of better terminology, had given way to hallucinations, these faded out, too, and then – then the fun really started.”

I sat up expectantly because Dr Myers didn't look like she had been having any fun at all. In fact, she looked worried and maybe a little frightened.

“You see,” she said, getting up and pacing in front of the window, “Mr Eggles stopped eating and drinking completely. At first we assumed he had somehow smuggled in food and was secretive about drinking, after all bizarre behaviour comes in all shapes and forms. After two days we got a little concerned however and put him in one of our observation rooms. I can show you the tapes, they clearly show that he didn't eat or drink a single thing for almost five days. It was like an extreme case of sudden-onset anorexia, in a way.”

“Did you put in an IV?” I asked. One of my cousin had suffered from anorexia for a while and I still remember her gaunt face and the IV-lines forcing nutrition into her starved body.

“Well,” Dr Myers said, “no, we didn't. See, the odd thing was: He stopped eating and drinking entirely, as far as we could tell, but it had absolutely no effect on his body weight, his electrolytes or any other aspect of his health. In fact, he gained some weight!”

I remembered Dr Ma telling us that the victims had both be in “wonderful health” and glanced over at Nightingale who was studying Dr Myers intently.

“That is certainly unusual,” he finally said. “And what about Ms Jenkins?.”

Dr Myers fell back into her chair and sighed. “Well, Ms Jenkins arrived here a day after Mr Eggles and looking back I'd say her symptoms developed exactly the same way. Only, we didn't notice right away because Ms Jenkins is a well-known return visitor.”

“She had been a patient here before?” Nightingale asked.

“Oh yes, several times. She suffered from schizophrenia and was …. ambivalent about medication. Every couple of months she would get it into her head that she didn't need the pills, stop taking them, and then be admitted when she started showing psychotic symptoms again. This time it was her boyfriend who brought her in after she had undressed in her mother's garden and tried to swim in the frozen pond. In hindsight, I'd classify what happened there as one of these strange 'flashbacks' but at the time it seemed like nothing more than the beginning of another psychotic episode.”

“Did they share hallucinations?” I wondered and by the way Dr Myers flinched slightly I knew I had hit a nerve.

“Well, they were both convinced that the big holly bush outside was inhabited by some kind of tree fairy. They wouldn't shut up about it. And....well. They both talked about dragons living on Tower Bridge. It became a kind of running joke among the staff, actually.” Dr Myers looked faintly uncomfortable admitting this but it didn't take much to imagine that people working on a psychiatric ward need their stress relief just like anybody else does. It's the same among the police and fire-fighters and nobody really likes to talk about it too much, in case it comes across as shallow and cynical. Which it quite often is.

“Did Ms Jenkins stop eating as well?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” Dr Myers confirmed. “She stopped eating, she stopped drinking even though she was put under observation as well and she was absolutely fine and completely healthy until the night nurse found her in exactly the same spot in the common room, too. Which is – well. Worrying, really, especially since we have absolutely no idea how they got out of the observation rooms and into the common area in the first place.”

Nightingale looked thoughtful. “Do you know if Ms Jenkins and Mr Eggles were acquainted before they met here?”

I'd been wondering the same thing and was hoping fiercely that the answer was yes. I'd much rather dig up their respective histories in the hope of finding a common event that kick-started the whole process than to think they'd infected each other here.

“Frankly, I'm not sure,” Dr Myers admitted. “I'm pretty sure they weren't friends but they could easily have met outside. As far as I know they both lived on the edge of Highgate Wood. They both frequently talked about how lovely the park was and how they missed going for walks there.”

I made a careful note of that. Was there a possible connection between the park and the  _vestigia_ ? 

“Thank you very much, Dr Myers.” Nightingale said. “We will need to take a look at the common room, the holly bush and the observation rooms then.” 

Dr Myers nodded. “I thought as much. Please, follow me.”

  
  


The common room was rather drab but clean, with worn out couches and an ancient TV in one corner. Nightingale and I made the rounds hoping to detect more  _vestigia._ And really, in the spot where both our victims had keeled over there was a faint trace again of the smell of  holly and snow.

“Some kind of tree magic?” I wondered in a low voice and Nightingale shrugged.

“As far as I know, trees themselves aren't particularly magical. It's the life forms that are attracted to woods which make them interesting but I'm not aware of any kind of magical life that has a special connection to holly bushes.”

When we stepped outside, Nightingale kept Dr Myers occupied while I inspected the big holly bush in the walled garden behind the hospital. It was an ancient thicket and for a moment I thought I saw someone in the far reaches of the dark green lattice of branches. 

I assembled the  _forma_ for  _lux_ in my mind and sent a cautious fairy light into the holly bush. Sky had loved them, after all. I took care not to make it too bright – I didn't want Dr Myers to become suspicious – but when it disappeared in the thicket I was sure I heard the sounds of muffled giggles.

I stepped closer, squinting into the murky half-dark. “Hey,” I called out in a low voice, “you want to come out for a moment? I can make more pretty lights.” And I  created  another fairy light, making it spin slightly on its axis. There was the same sound of far off giggling but nothing else.

“Any luck?” Nightingale asked when Dr Myers had gone back inside.

“Not really. There seems to be somebody here but if they really are a dryad they aren't too interested in helping the police with their inquiries.”

“Hm,” Nightingale said thoughtfully, “I think I'll have to do some research once we get back home.” Being the enigmatic bastard that he was he didn't say into what though, because he didn't want to “bias” my perceptions. What a load of bollox.

We went back inside to inspect the observation rooms but there was nothing there. Except for the interesting informational tidbit that the observation equipment had malfunctioned on the nights the victims had died. 

“Both stopped working,” the young IT-girl said who had been summoned from her tech cave. “And it's the strangest thing: When we took the cameras apart to see what the problem was they were full of fine sand. Now, how on earth did that get in there?”

I was briefly tempted to tell her about the deleterious effect magic had on microprocessors – she was wearing wrist warmers with Hogwarts crest and would surely have appreciated it – but in the end just asked her to seal both cameras in evidence bags and hand them over. She seemed plenty thrilled by that, too.

“Right,” Nightingale said, “I think it's time for lunch and then I'm afraid we'll have to inform DS Stephanopoulous of what's going on on her patch.”

I grimaced. So far, both deaths had been treated as natural if strange and I did not particularly look forward to explaining that they had died of magic and we had no idea why.


	3. Chapter 3

We returned to the Folly for a spot of lunch and found Zach in the big dining room. He graciously offered us some of Molly's ricotta and kale lasagna. It was surprisingly edible.

“Any luck with your research?” I asked.

Zach just shrugged. “I'm getting there. Gotta head over to Tower Bridge after lunch, though. Bit of a dragon infestation going on there.”

“You really are the odd-job man around here, aren't you?” I asked out of reflex and then realised what it was he had just said.

“Wait, there actually _are_ dragons on Tower Bridge?”

“Sure,” Zach confirmed, “little buggers have been reproducing like crazy recently. Probably all that global warming makes them a little too comfy.”

“I thought dragons had all become extinct,” Nightingale interjected. 

Of course he had known dragons were real. Of course he hadn't bothered to mention that to me.

“Well,” Zach explained, “the big ones have, yeah. Those little buggers though, they're adaptable. They'll eat anything and they're damn good at hiding.”

Nightingale and I shared a glance.

“You know, Zach,” I said, “somebody recently told me there was an old treaty between the fae and the Folly obliging us to grant each other assistance. How about you take us along to see the dragons, then?”

“Whatever do you want to do that for? They just stink and they don't even breathe fire.”

“Oh,” Nightingale cut in smoothly, “let's just say we're a zoologically curious bunch. And it has been decades since I've seen a live dragon.”

  
  


 

The dragons really were the size of rats with little stubby wings that gave them just enough lift so they were able to get corrosive dragon shit all over our trousers.

“Disgusting stuff, isn't it?” Zach asked grimacing. He had put on a face mask and chain mail gloves and was industriously scrubbing the greenish substance from the bridge railings. 

I noticed that none of the passers-by seemed to find anything odd with this scene. Nor did they react to the dragons in any way.

“Why can't other people see them?” I asked.

“Oh,” Nightingale explained, “this is similar to _vestigia_ and ghosts. Most people don't have an ounce of magical talent and they are firmly convinced dragons don't exist.”

“So these things can only be seen by the magical and the mad?”

“Hm,” Nightingale said, “that is odd, certainly. Usually, mental illness doesn't influence people's magical abilities. But it certainly seems like we aren't dealing with hallucinations so much as with an increase in magical perception here.” One of the little critters had clamped its jaws around his walking stick and Nightingale gingerly lifted it up to inspect it. “They do seem like a distant relative of the ancient British river dragons, to be sure.”

“Swamp dragons, actually,” Zach said. “They're a nuisance, really. In the summer it's not so bad. They mainly just steal salt and vinegar crisps from the tourists.”

“Oh, you've got to be kidding me!” I exclaimed, trying to pick one of the little buggers off my messenger bag. Where, I was pretty sure, Molly had stored some crisps in case we got peckish.

Zach laughed. “You got any in there? Just give it to him and he'll leave you alone.”

And indeed, as soon as I'd ripped open the packet and scattered the crisps out before me, the tiny dragons were all over them making delighted chomping noises.

Zach leaned on his broom for a bit and watched them. “Their poop always ends up getting into the river. It's vile,” he said. “It annoys the Rivers no end, so in the winter, when it gets extra bad because they live of antifreeze and other disgusting stuff, they hire me to take care of it.”

“Ah yes, the Rivers. Have you talked to Beverly lately, Peter?” Nightingale asked.

I shook my head and shrugged noncommittally.

“Hm,” Nightingale said and and he held me gaze for an uncomfortable moment. “Oh well,” he then said, “I'm afraid we have to get going. DS Stephanopoulos is waiting for us.”


	4. Chapter 4

_There was darkness all around_ _David_ _but it was a luminous kind of darkness. It seemed to him that he was perceiving light with a sense other than the optical and that it was drawing him forward. The light seemed warm and hospitable and it called up memories of mince pies, Christmas trees and mulled wine._

_Which was certainly odd, seeing as David's actual memories of Christmasses past revolved around shouting matches and breaking glass rather than romantic notions of yuletide cheer. And yet, as he stumbled around a forest that seemed curiously different from the trees of Highgate Wood which had surrounded him only moments before, it seemed to him that both these memories and the last ten years of midwinter celebrations with his fellow druids had been wiped away, leaving only a naïve childish joy and the urge to sing Christmas carols he had forgotten all the words to._

_Humming gently to himself he stumbled along until at long last he came to a clearing. There was an enormous holly bush in its center that had been decked out with candles and all kinds of ornaments and under its huge branches a table had been set with goblets in which mulled wine was steaming enticingly. Suddenly beyond thirsty, he gulped down more than one goblet and while it tasted strangely of cold water and snow, he found he simply couldn't stop drinking._


	5. Chapter 5

Informing Miriam Stephanopoulos that something weird and magical was going on on her turf was always a fun way to spend an afternoon.

We were sitting in one of the charmless, airless interrogation rooms at her nick, slurping disgusting tea and trying to ignore the tinny noise of Christmas music that was filtering in from somewhere.

“So,” Stephanopoulos said, “you're telling me we're after the Ghost of Christmas Past?” Her voice was entirely dry and professional but I was sure I detected at least a hint of “not these idiots again” and “the Lord must be testing me” in there.

“Well, I'm not sure about the Christmas part,” I admitted, “but generally yes.”

Stephanopoulos shot a look at Nightingale, as if to confirm I wasn't pulling her leg. I get that sort of thing a lot, even from people who've expressly called us in because we deal with the X-Files end of things.

Nightingale, ever the laconic understated guv'nor, just shrugged, leaving me to explain.

“At least that's the code name for the operation so far. We're not entirely sure what exactly it is, yet.”

“But it causes flashbacks?”

“Well, sort of. It seems it starts out with that – ”

“Which is why Mr. Eggles' sister thought he was developing PTSD?”

“Exactly. Only it's not really like PTSD because the flashbacks aren't about traumatic events at all. Catrina Jenkins, for example, flashed back to a happy day at the beach so much she undressed in her mother's garden and tried to swim in the frozen pond. But she _was_ smiling all the time.”

If Stephanopoulos eyebrows climbed any higher they'd merge with her pixi e cut.

“But then,” I continued quickly wanting to get all of the weird stuff out at once to give her some time to digest it, “her boyfriend said she started seeing really crazy things. Not flashback-crazy, real crazy. Dragons, for example. So did Stephen Eggles.”

“OK,” Stephanopoulos said, “so it starts our with happy flashbacks and then morphs into regular hallucinations?”

“Erm,” I said, “well, the thing is: The dragons are actually real so they aren't precisely hallucinations.”

“The dragons are real,” she repeated in her “I'm humouring the weirdos”-voice.

“Oh yes,” Nightingale confirmed, “your bona fide magical creature.”

“Yeah. Um. It seems there is a bit of in infestation, actually.”

It was all a bit of an embarrassment, really. If you have to inform a superior officer of the fact that there are actual-fact, real-life dragons at large in London there should at least be a gratifying moment of shock and awe in it for you. It's hard to feel shock and awe when the relevant dragons are the size of rats and desperate for salt and vinegar crisps.

There was another doubtful look from Stephanopoulos to Nightingale who was doing his best poker face.

“You're telling me there are dragons running around London but only crazy people can see them?”

I winced. “Not people with....differences as such. Normally only magical people can see them. But something must have happened to Ms Jenkins and Mr Eggles that made them able to spot them as well. Possibly, they both were exposed to a specific kind of high background magic.” 

Stephanopoulos' face looked as if she had taken a bite of Molly's cicoria salad. “You know, the magical people of London and all the things they're seeing are starting to get on my nerves. Especiall y since I get to see none of the interesting stuff but still have to police them.” Was I imagining things or was there a hint of jealousy in her voice?

Nightingale's smile was tired but reassuring. “Well, that's what we are for. It would be very helpful though, if your people could check for any possible links between the victims. So far our most likely hypothesis is that they both were exposed to whatever caused this unusually high level of background magic in the same spot.”

She looked thoughtful. “They are both from Highgate aren't they?”

Nightingale nodded. “We will be examining the medical records in detail and see if there is any indication there of common interests they might have talked about.”

“Like what? A fondness for Dickens?” Stephanopoulos' face was still carefully blank in a way that suggested she would hit the whiskey bottle hard once she got home that night. “Oh, alright,” she said. “I'll keep you in the loop with regards to the door-to-door and you keep me in the loop with regard to the magical stuff.”


	6. Chapter 6

_ David wasn't sure how long he had already been here. Sometimes he thought it must be months and sometimes it seemed like just a few hours. He didn't mind too much, though. It was peaceful here and the mulled wine was still excellent. He slept a lot in the soft drifts of snow that felt exactly the way they looked, like fluffy piles of down, and whenever he got thirsty another goblet appeared as if by magic. And then there was the singing. He couldn't really make out the words but the melodies were both complex and harmonious and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. The little guys with the caps seemed to like it, too, and kept dancing to it.  _ _ He loved that. As a kid he had always imagined finding a secret place in the woods with brownies who would take him with them just before going to sleep. And here it was. W _ _ henever the worries about where and when exactly he was became too much, one of them would simply take him by the hand and pull him into one of their weird dances around the big holly bush . _

_ He felt at one with the world for the first time since being very, very small and he never wanted it to stop. _


	7. Chapter 7

After our little chat with Stephanopoulos, we retreated to do some studying. While Nightingale disappeared into the library stacks, I hunkered down at the dinner table with the files from Highgate Mental Health Centre and a huge mug of coffee. Most of it was pretty boring being a daily account of the therapy sessions and medications they had received, which didn't really tell me anything I didn't already know. 

In the end, I got up, stretched out the kinks in my back, and looked down at Toby who had curled up next to my feet. “Nothing interesting here, old boy,” I told him and Toby thumped his tail unto the floor lazily, “just your usual psychiatric bureaucracy.” Toby woofed gently.

But as I attempted to re-stack my papers, two smallish envelopes clattered to the floor causing the dog to shoot me a reproachful look. I picked them up and discovered that they held old-fashioned Dictaphone tapes labeled “intake interview E090584” and “intake interview J1407 88 ” respectively. 

“Hm,” I told Toby, “looks like the NHS hasn't quite joined the digital age yet.” Which was fortunate for me, of course, as the tapes were unlikely to have been affected by magic.

I started hunting for a Dictaphone around the Folly and indeed, it looked like our Luddite-ish ways were for once paying off.

I placed the first tape into the small device and after some shifting and crackling I could hear the sound of Dr Myers' voice.

“So, Mr Eggles,” she was saying, “what exactly brought you here?”

Then followed the litany of symptoms I had by now grown familiar with: The ability to see strange things other people weren't seeing, flashbacks, etc. I was just about to turn it off when a third voice joined the conversation. A youngish, female voice, probably the sister's.

“Really,” she explained, “it all started after you disappeared at night.”

“I didn't disappear,” Eggles corrected, “I just went for a walk.”

“You were gone for more than 24 hours! In the freezing cold! And you didn't answer your phone!” The sister sounded annoyed now, and very worried.

“Mr Eggles,” Dr Myers cut in, “Is it true your symptoms started after your day outside?”

“I guess you could say that,” Eggles seemed to agree but reluctantly. “But really, it was just a walk. It was one of those lovely clear nights and there was snow in the Wood and I just needed to clear my head.”

Highgate – the Wood – Holly – something started to niggle away at the very edge of my consciousness and I replaced Eggles' tape with Ms Jenkins'. And really, there it was, about a minute or so into the interview. This time it was the boyfriend who brought it up.

“She likes taking walks, yeah? But this was weird, like. I swear she was gone the whole night. Said she'd been out in the Wood but there was no snow on her shoes at all. I've not idea where she was actually hanging out, yeah?”

There is something very lovely and satisfying about the details of a case coming together like this. Even when I wasn't sure yet how Highgate Wood, background magic and psychiatric symptoms all fit together.

“You know, Toby,” I said, “I'm pretty sure Highgate Wood is one of the oldest bits of woodland in the city. Probably plenty of _vestigia_ there. And there are supposed to be some lovely holly bushes in it, too.  Want to bet that whatever magical thing happened to our victims happened in Highgate Wood?” Toby seemed rather unimpressed by this bit of information but when I mentioned going for walkies he was up in a flash.

  
  


It's possible that with a dog pulling on the end of the leash and me trying to pull on my gloves I wasn't paying as much attention to my surroundings as I should have when leaving the Folly. Which was why I opened the front door and ran smack into the lovely chest of Beverly Brook.

“Whoa,” I said, “What _is_ it with you people? Have none of you ever heard of calling ahead or ringing a doorbell?”

Beverly just raised a silent eye-brow at me. 

“Hello Peter,” she finally said, “I was just stopping by. Is this a bad time?”

“Um”, I said intelligently while Toby pulled on the leash. 

The thing was, I had last seen Beverly just before the whole clusterfuck at Skygarden Tower. Seeing her now brought back the crushing sense of failure I felt when thinking about Sky as well as a vivid memory of Leslie heckling me over my romantic obliviousness. Which was probably why I hadn't picked up a phone in the intervening weeks.

“No,” I heard myself say despite all this, “this isn't a bad time. But we were heading to Highgate Wood for a walk. Want to join us?”

She looked at me oddly for a moment. “Highgate Wood? OK.”

We piled into the car Dr Walid was kindly lending me while I was looking for a replacement vehicle and made our way to Highgate in a loaded kind of silence that nevertheless wasn't as uncomfortable as I would have predicted.

Once we got to the Wood, I let Toby off the leash in the hope that his finely tuned sense for  _vestigia_ would help us out and Beverly and started walking through the dark and snowy landscape. After a moment she took one of my gloved hands into hers.

But if Beverly was here to have a 'talk' she was evidently in nor hurry. “There's been some trouble around here,” she said instead gesturing at the trees around us. “Some kind of new age druid group has been annoying the locals for a while now.”

“The locals?” I asked.

Beverly shrugged. “Tree nymphs, dryads, whatever you want to call them. Fae of some kind.”

“Did they say anything about people taking nightly walks?” I asked.

“Don't think so,” she said, “but I don't think we would bother them.” Which wasn't why I had been asking, of course, but how was she to know?

We walked on in slightly more comfortable silence for a bit and then she suddenly said: “We aren't blaming you for what happened at Skygarden, you know. Nicky is just a child and Sky was her friend. She was upset.”

I swallowed hard, thinking of Sky's open, childlike face and her broken body lying motionless among the limbs of murdered trees. “Still, I'm sorry about Sky,” I finally said, thickly.

She nodded seriously and after a moment of silence said: “I'm sorry about Leslie.”

Something sharp and hot spiked in my belly for a moment and then was replaced with the leaden feeling of failure again. 

“I was in love with her, you know,” I heard myself say and shit, what was it about Beverly that made my brain-to-mouth-filter fuck off and leave me in the lurch?

But Beverly stayed remarkably calm. “Yes,” was all she said.

I stopped in my tracks. “What do you mean, 'yes'?”

“I mean, I know. I knew. You aren't exactly Mr Subtlety.” The arch of her eyebrows was immaculate.

“You – ? But you – ,” I stammered.

“Oh, for the love of – ,” she exclaimed finally losing that strange, forced patience and wheeling on me. “You humans! You drive me nuts! Why, why would that mean you can't love me as well? How is that even logical?”

“Um,” I said.

“Look at your precious Nightingale! He loves you and he loves Leslie and yet he is fucking Molly. Where is the bloody problem with that? Since when is love a zero sum game?”

“Wait, WHAT?” I demanded.

Beverly drew in air and I really, really would have liked to hear whatever she was planning to say next but unfortunately that was when Toby started barking hysterically while somebody swore loudly at him. 

We turned around and starting running towards the noise in the dark.

  
  


  
  


  
  


“So, you're the druids,” I finally said as Beverly rolled her eyes next to me. “And you were – ”

“Preparing a midwinter ritual,” Brian, the scruffy one with the beard, said snippily, “to honour the turning of the wheel and the rhythms of nature.” 

“By planting a tree?” I asked.

“An oak tree,” druid no. 2, Terry, said. “You know, the holy tree of the British Isles? And yeah, that was when your mutt came running and attacked us.”

I managed to restrain myself from asking whether dogs weren't part of the wonderful rhythms of nature. Brian was a tall guy and the spindly young tree in a pot next to him made him look even taller. With the beard and long flowing hair he really would have looked the part of druid if it hadn't been for the bright orange Jack Wolfskin jacket that somewhat marred the effect. Terry was wearing a Bob Marley  beanie and what I was pretty sure were hemp trousers.

“You do that sort of thing often?” I finally asked. 

The druids shrugged. 

Toby continued barking.

“Fucking amateurs,” Beverly muttered next to me. And then louder: “Seeing as you're so attuned to the rhythms of nature and everything, I'm sure you asked the local tree spirits for permission, right? Before planting new trees in their territory?”

“Wait, what? What the hell are you talking about?” Brian demanded but Beverly just glowered at him. 

“Thought so,” she muttered darkly to herself.

Toby was still barking and whining, sniffing around the potted tree and two others which were almost as spindly.

“So, you were actually planning to plant a tree. In winter.” I clarified.

“Look, it's bloody symbolic, OK?” Terry yelled.

“Yeah,” I said exasperatedly, “but quite apart from the fact that not anybody can just come here and plant a tree, the ground is completely frozen.” 

I knelt down and scraped some of the snow away to make my point. Which was when the  _vestigia_ hit me so hard it nearly swept me off my knees. 

_Holly and snow and sunlight glittering off ice. The smell of mulled wine and mince pies making my mouth water._

I shook my head hard to clear it and looked up at Beverly. “What the hell is this place?”

She shrugged. “These are  F aerie woods, Peter. They sometimes bleed through.” I made a mental note to ask more questions about this later. 

“Right,” I said to the druids, “do you guys ever come out here at night?”

They looked shifty which was hilarious, seeing as entering the Wood at night wasn't actually illegal. Unlike planting trees.

“We sometimes do night rituals,” Terry finally admitted.

I got to me feet again and fished out my notebook. “Ever meet anyone else here? At night?”

Both shook their heads.

“What about November 24th? Or 19th?”

“No, we weren't out here those nights.”

“You sure?”

Both nodded vigorously. 

“How can you be so sure?”

“Well, we had our last rituals on November 18th and 23rd, didn't we?” Brian explained. “Planted the first two trees then.”

“I see. Well, I'll need you to tell me exactly what sort of rituals you do.”

Terry blew out an exasperated breath. “Well, we draw a circle and then David usually calls the quarters and then I – ”

“Hang on,” I interrupted him, “who's David?”

“Yeah, well,” Brian said rather aggressively, “David is the wanker who was supposed to prepare the sacred ground tonight. But he skived off. Hasn't even been taking our calls today Even though he was supposed to lead the bloody thing. Left us bloody hanging, didn't he?”

“So, it's usually three of you?”

“Yeah,” Terry confirmed, “and you can even tell he was here! He left his ritual kit.” He pointed to a small backpack that after some cautious poking around in turned out to hold candles, dried herbs and a white robe. “Probably did the ritual by himself, the selfish bastard,” Terry muttered.

“How often do I have to tell you, it doesn't work that way?” Brian seemed really annoyed now. “You can't do this ritual by yourself, you need three points to the triangle in order to ground the – ”

“Yeah, well, tell it to Dave! He didn't think so and hasn't waited around for us so – ”

I decided to intervene before the liturgical debate got entirely out of hand.

“Look, I really need to take both of your statements,” I explained, “but how about we do that somewhere warm?”

“You do that,” Beverly said, “I'm going to look in on some friends.”

Ideally, I really would have liked  to finish our conversation from earlier but with two potential witnesses to interview it didn't seem like a great time.

“Righ,” I said, “I'll call you, yeah?”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “This time you better really do,” she muttered and then started walking in the direction of a small copse of holly bushes we had passed earlier.

  
  


  
  


We ended up repairing to a tiny caf é on the edge of the Wood that seemed to specialise in cupcakes and pink and where I made Brian and Terry walk me through the rituals in painful detail. They seemed only too happy to have found someone who took a real interest but they also, unfortunately, made it clear they had no connection to any kind of Newtonian magic whatsoever and hadn't the faintest notion of  _vestigia_ either. While that didn't make it impossible for them to be connected to our two magical corpses and their walks in these woods, it did make it unlikely.

Which is why it came as a welcome surprise  when I got Nightingale's text.

“ _Dear Peter, please come home. The case is closed. Sincerely, Thomas Nightingale.”_


	8. Chapter 8

I found Nightingale in the library where he was leaning over a large book. When I closed the door behind me, he looked up and started to declaim: 

"True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank,  
A ferlie he spied wi’ his ee,  
And there he saw a lady bright,  
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree."

"...Sir?” I asked cautiously. Had we been wrong about the magical-psychiatric symptoms not being catching?

“Thomas the Rhymer, Peter!” Nightingale explained with the long suffering look of the geek who keeps hopelessly outgeeking everyone he meets.

“That's a ballad from the 18th century, isn't it?”

“Well, this version is, yes. However, Thomas of Erceldoune actually lived in the 13th century and the romance of his abduction into Faerie was most likely codified a century or so after that.”

“That is lovely, sir. But you texted me to say the case had been solved?”

“Indeed. Come, have a seat.” He gestured at the chairs around the fireplace and I gratefully sank into one of them. 

Nightingale took a seat as well, bringing the big book of ballads with him.

“In the 13th century a tale began to circulate,” he explained, “about a Scottish laird who had met the Queen of Faerie or Elfland and was invited into her country. They traveled together for seven years and then he was sent back to his own country and given the gift of prophecy. And, according to some versions of the tale, the inability to tell a lie.”

“I'm not sure I'm seeing the connection,” I said doubtfully.

“Both Mr Eggles and Ms Jenkins were able to predict the future.”

“What?”

“Something about the constellation of symptoms and the _vestigia_ seemed familiar and I was able to find a reference in Forbes' _Morbi Magici._ He describes a condition called Rhymer Syndrome and suggests Thomas might have been one of the first recorded cases. Its main symptoms are a sudden increased sensitivity for magical phenomena, being assaulted by intense memories – and the ability to predict future events.”

“But Dr Myers didn't mention anything about predictions. Neither did the files.”

“Which is why I returned to the Mental Health Centre to interview the nurses. It turns out that both of our victims were known among the nursing staff for making extremely mundane but also extremely accurate predictions: Who would catch the flu next, how many patients would be newly admitted in a day and similar things. Apparently nobody bothered telling Dr Myers as the predictions seemed harmless and frankly a little ridiculous.”

“So, this is actually an illness we are dealing with? Is it contagious?”

“Not so much an illness as a kind of overdose, I'd say. Forbes seems very sure that Rhymer Syndrome only affects those who stumble into Faerie and eat and drink there.”

“Faerie? So, there really is such a place? The mythical country of fairies?”

“That is hard to say, Peter. It seems, in any case, to be realm that is quite different from our own.”

I remembered being buried under miles of concrete and finding myself suddenly on a river bank conversing with gods. It seemed there were a lot more alternate dimensions or twilight zones than I had been promised in physics class.

“So, these are what? Two tragic accidents? Mr Eggles and Ms Jenkins just happened to wander into Faerie, ate and drank something and gave themselves an overload of magic?”

“Possibly, yes,” Nightingale said, “though it does seem odd to have two such cases within days of each other. According to Forbes' records, this sort of thing only occurs about once or twice a century. We should really look into the location of whatever magical entrance both Jenkins and Eggles wandered through.”

“Well,” I said, “there is certainly something odd going on at Highgate Wood. Both of them disappeared into it for a whole day and there is a spot there with enough _vestigia_ to knock you flat. Do you think that could be it?”

Which was when the aroma of corrosive dragon shit hit my nostrils and a curious voice right next to my ear asked: “Did you just say Highgate Wood?”

I levitated about a foot in the air. “Bloody hell, Zach!”

Zach seemed inordinately pleased with himself for sneaking up on me again but Nightingale was giving him a rather sharp look.

“I really do hope you aren't planning to use our library in these clothes, Zachary Palmer,” he said coldly. My guv'nor has a zero tolerance policy when it comes to stains on books.

“Nah, don't worry, I'm gonna shower this blasted stuff off first. Just wanted to say hi. Really, though, what did you just say about Highgate Wood?”

I folded my arms over my chest. “Why do you want to know?”

Zach rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on!”

And that was when I was hit with a sudden flash of inspiration. “Say, Zach,” I asked, “didn't you say your folks had a door stuck somewhere? Is that door by any chance stuck  _open_ ? In Highgate Wood?”

Zach looked uncomfortable. “Look,” he said, “I really am not supposed to talk to you lot about fae stuff, you know? But it seems there have been some druid kids messing around in the Wood. You should look into it, really. Illegal planting of trees and everything.”

Nightingale raised an eyebrow. “Do you not remember the ancient custom? And that exchange of information and resources goes both ways?”

“Yeah, well,” Zach said doubtfully, “that really only applies when you lot are in danger.”

“Or innocent people whom we are sworn to protect,” Nightingale reminded him. “We have two dead bodies in the morgue because of whatever portal your kind can't get to shut and somebody else could already be taking a deadly stroll through Faerie this very minute.”

“Yeah,” I said, “especially with these druids performing midwinter rituals right on top of that door and – aw shit,” I said with vehemence, as tonight's second flash of insight hit me.

“Peter, I really must ask you to watch your language!” Nightingale reprimanded me.

“Sorry sir. But it's entirely possible that we've already got a third victim wandering around Faerie at the moment.”

I told them about the druids whose mate had disappeared from their ritual spot and left all his gear behind and by the end Nightingale was looking grim enough that Zach let out a defeated sigh and said: “Yeah,  OK , you got me. There is a door to Faerie stuck open in Highgate Wood and I'm supposed to fix it,  OK ?”

“Right,” Nightingale said and levered himself out of the armchair, “collect your coats and meet me at the car. We're going to Highgate.”


	9. Chapter 9

We were lucky in that Zach had changed clothes before getting in the car, especially since the Jag's ventilation system was a bit decrepit.

“You know, sir,” I said as we climbed the slope of Muswell Hill, “it might not be a bad idea to call in for backup right now.”

Nightingale blew out a breath. “I'm not sure who you have in mind, Peter, but I doubt anyone on the Metropolitan Police Force will be of any help if we get stuck in Faerie.”

“Still, we should at least let Stephanopoulos know we're heading into a potentially dangerous situation. And probably Dr Walid, too, in case we need medical assistance – or David does.”

Nightingale nodded and I made the relevant calls. Stephanopoulos wasn't pleased, exactly, but she promised to come and check up on us if we didn't call back in within the next 30 minutes. 

Dr Walid had been on the M25, heading home for the holidays but he turned the car around when he heard what was going on. He was not a man you can keep away from a new and interesting magical disease just because it's Christmas eve.

  
  


  
  


The Wood was even darker now than two hours ago and the crunching of the snow under our feet seemed faintly ominous. When we finally reached the spot where I had encountered both the druids and the intense  _vestigium_ , Zach started to swear.

“Oak trees! The stupid wankers planted bloody fucking oak trees!”

“Zach – ” Nightingale said wearily but Zach was on a roll.

“I don't mind the pagans, you know, I really don't. First class people, most of them. But these are irresponsible assholes who don't have enough sense to know that planting fucking oak trees in a _door to Faerie_ might be a fucking stupid idea!”

“So, that's why the door is stuck?” I asked. “But then, why didn't the fae just dig the trees up again?”

Zach kicked one of the trees which shook sadly. “Yeah, well,” he said, “they dug the trees in with bloody iron shovels, I bet you anything. Them as is real, 100% fae can't go near the stuff  or near earth it has touched .”

“Right,” Nightingale said, “but you, being mixed, can?” 

Zach nodded and waved the spade he had been carrying.

“Then get on it,” Nightingale ordered. “But first, can you get us through the portal?”

Zach sighed. “Yeah, you just need to get between the trees and twist like so and – ” He did a funny sideways twist with his hips and was suddenly gone.

“Well,” I said, “Terry Pratchett and his wee free men would certainly be delighted by that.”

Nightingale just raised an eyebrow at me and then, without a word, got between the oak saplings, twisted his hips in a way I would never have expected of him and disappeared as well.

“Oh fine,” I said to the general darkness around me, “at least it isn't concrete this time.”

I stepped between the two saplings and the  _vestigia_ washed over me again. This time I let it tug at me and felt my body starting to move with it. I amplified the movement a little and then there was something like a snap and – 

  
  


_reality shattered_


	10. Chapter 10

_Zachary Palmer:_

_I can feel the familiar tug of the ground on the soles of my feet and breathe in deeply to savour the taste of the air. This is home, that's for sure. So are many other places in my life but this one is special._

  
  


_I look around and spot the bright_ _pink_ _jacket of what is surely the idiot druid boy who got lost between two holly bushes._

“ _Hey, I found him!” I yell over my shoulder, turning to wave the Nightingale and Peter on. Which is when I realise both of them are lying face down in the snow with their limbs twitching slightly._

“ _Oh bloody hell, no,” I mutter to myself as I start towards them. Not this shit again._

  
  


  
  


_Peter Grant:_

_I can feel the weight of the baton at my side and the comforting heaviness of the_ _police issue_ _vest pressing on my shoulders as Leslie and I enter the club. It's a regular Friday night crowd in a jazz club and there is a live band that has just finished a piece._

“ _You know,” I say as I turn to Leslie, “that could almost have been my dad playing.”_

“ _No shit,” she says and her grin makes me turn around again and take a closer look at the band._

“ _Hey,” I exclaim, “that IS my dad!” Leslie just laughs at me and rolls her eyes._

_We start to push through the crowd and my dad is climbing down from the stage talking to his band. It's a bit weird because while the man in the tuxedo is clearly Dad he is also much, much younger than I've ever seen him. He has a full head of hair, for one thing and the way he holds himself reminds me of old pictures my Mum will sometimes take out and study wistfully._

_This, I realise with a start, is Dad before the drugs._

_While I'm still trying to make sense of that realisation, I suddenly see a tall blonde coming up behind him and tapping his shoulder._

_It takes me just a moment and then I react in the way I have always wanted to: Instinctively and perfectly, before my brain has had a chance to decode the information consciously._

“ _Dad,” I yell, “get AWAY from her!”But even before I've finished yelling I'm already there, already close enough to touch and to pull him away when Simone reaches out a hand and –_

_Dad, Leslie and I spin with my momentum, knocking into the bar and each other in the process. Once the world has stopped spinning and we've sorted ourselves out Simone seems to have disappeared._

“ _Peter, really,” my dad says as he dusts himself off, “she looked like a nice girl. Doesn't your old man deserve some fun?”_

_My head is still spinning but there is a delighted grin on my face_ _that_ _I will have a hard time explaining to my old man in a moment. For now all I want to do is revel in the fact that I've just saved my dad from magical vampirism, neurological damage and a lifetime_ _of_ _addiction. Once, just once I'm the golden boy around here and it feels amazing._

“ _Ah well,” Dad says,”since you're here, how about we have a wee drink?” And he gestures at the bar tender._

  
  


  
  


_Thomas Nightingale:_

_The enormous wooden doors in front of me are painfully familiar as is the cacophony of people singing ten different Christmas carols at once that is bleeding through them._

_How many Christmas dinners have I had here at Cosgrove Hall?And how many since, in deadly cold silence in the Folly?_

_There is a tightness in my throat as I push open the doors, letting the noise and light wash over me as delighted shouting greets me._

“ _Thomas! Hey! Over here!”_

_And there they are, every last one of them: Simon and David, Stephen and George, Timothy, Daniel and Hamish. Every one of my comrades in arms is here and they're all gathered around “our” bit of the long table in the great dining hall, just as we used to be as schoolboys._

_They're all here and all alive and I suddenly feel a warmth blooming in my chest I haven't felt in decades._

_The wood of the chair is comfortingly solid and familiar under my trembling fingers as I lower myself into the seat. Someone slings an arm over my shoulders and somebody else presses a glass of wine into my hand._

“ _To the end of the war!” Timothy yells and all around me glass rise up high into the air. “To peace and victory over the bloody Germans!”_

  
  


  
  


_Zach_ _ary Palmer:_

_It's been a while now since I sent the Call out and I've been trying to uproot these bloody trees just to keep busy but it's tough going because the ground is frozen. I'm lucky in that She hasn't shown up yet. It's not like I've got a chance against Her on my own._

_I keep stepping “outside” to check and this time there is somebody there. Though not the somebody I Called._

_The lady isn't particularly tall but rather imposing and she's wearing police-type clothing. She pulls herself up grandly when she sees me and demands:“Who the hell are you?”_

_I squint at her through the snow for a moment. She's probably one of Peter's police mates but she has the bearing of a pissed off Queen and we probably have enough of those running around here for the night. “Listen lady, I have no idea who you are but – ”_

“ _Detective Sergeant Miriam Stephanopoulos. I'm looking for two of my colleagues and I've had a really long day so you'd better not try playing coy with me. Where are they?”_

“ _In Elfland,” I say because I've had a long day, too and I like seeing people's reactions when I say things like that._

_She rolls her eyes. “Look, I'm happy to just take you back with me and then we can sit in a lovely, warm interrogation room and – ”_

_Which is when I've had enough._

“ _Right,” I say, “you want to see your mates? Just follow me.” And I step back._

_It takes a moment and then she lands in the snow right next to me._

  
  


  
  


_Miriam Stephanopoulos:_

_The doorbell is freezing against my fingertip but the sound is sweet and familiar. I haven't been to Nan's house in many years but when she opens the door she looks just like I remember her from before the cancer._

“ _Miriam!” She hugs me and I breathe in the familiar smells of wool and lavender soap. “I'm ever so glad you came! Come on in, love!”_

_I step inside and immediately start to sweat. “Nan, you've got the heat turned up all the way, haven't you?”_

“ _Well, you know how it is, dear. Old bones get cold easily. Now, come on through. Dinner is already on the table.”_

_I step through into the living room and it_ _'_ _s just like I remember it from my childhood: A small Christmas tree in the corner, a nativity scene under it and the smell of beeswax candles._

_I take a seat at the table and Nan sits down opposite me. How many years did I spent here, sitting right across from her and yet never really allowing her to see me? Too many years, I'm sure._

_And suddenly I know. This year, this Christmas, is it. I will tell her today._

_I take a deep breath and look at her. “Nan,” I say, feeling my heart beat high up in my throat, “I've got something to tell you.”_

“ _Yes, dear,” she says, “what is it?”_

“ _Nan, I'm a lesbian.” I hold my breath for a moment and it seems she does the same. And then she starts to laugh and pats my hand._

“ _Oh dear, I know! I've known for years now. Were you really that scared of telling me?”_

_I sit stunned for a moment and then I start laughing, too, feeling my muscles loosen and my chest expand. My_ _N_ _an and I are sitting here, talking and there is no secret between us anymore._

_Nan grabs the bottle of wine and fills both our glasses up. “Come on, love, let's have a toast then.”_

_I raise the glass to my lips._

  
  


  
  


_Zachary Palmer:_

_It took all of five seconds for her to fall into the trance as well. Great. This is really strong stuff that's going on here and there is no way I'm getting any of them out by myself. Just gotta hope the cavalry will arrive soon._

_I haven't even finished that thought when someone_ thwapps _me upside the head._

“ _Zachary Palmer!” Beverly is shouting. “If you ever, ever put a Call like this out again, I will personally hunt you down and_ kill _you. My head is still hurting.”_

  
  


  
  


_Beverly Brook:_

_As soon as Molly and I step between the trees I can feel it. She is close and boy is She pissed. The anger radiates from the space between the trees and it only grows more intense once we've actually stepped inside Faerie. Molly makes a hissing sound and I can only agree._

_The first thing I see is Zach Palmer leaning over a woman I've seen around before. She is white, squat and even lying still and obviously in a Faerie trance she exudes a certain air of power and command._

_I hit Zach upside the head to get his attention and to pay him back for the unnecessary intensity with which he Called us here. Then I point at the woman lying prone._

“ _Who's that then?” I ask._

“ _Don't really know,” he says, “but she said Peter and the Nightingale were her people. Came looking for them.”_

“ _What about the others?” I ask._

“ _All out cold, too. I tried rousing them but they're under too deep. We might have more luck with this one, she's only been out for a minute or so.”_

“ _Right,” I say, “Molly, I'm going to try and get through to her. You keep watch, alright?”_

_There is another hissing sound of agreement and I turn my attention to the woman on the snowy ground in front of me._

_As I let my attention wander over her the feeling I get is of peace and happiness but with the sour undertones of an Faerie trance marring it. She is probably experiencing something lovely and longed for right now as the Queen attempts to make her eat or drink._

_And really, as I watch her mouth opens slightly and she raises a fistful of snow to it._

_Suddenly galvanised into action, I pounce on her arm and shake it vigorously. “Stop it!” I yell in her face and then, following a sudden intuition: “Stop it and remember you're a warrior! You can fight this!”_

_A shudder runs through her and then she opens her eyes._


	11. Chapter 11

_Miriam Stephanopoulos:_

_Coming to hurts in more ways than one. There is the ache that comes from having my arm bent under me at an awkward angle, the pain of the cold where my face is pressed into the snow. But most of all there is the pain of waking up and realising that Nan has been dead for more than 10 years and that we never got to have the conversation I just experienced._

_With that realisation pain turns into hot anger and I lever myself up, intent on clocking whoever is in reach._

_It must show because the pretty black girl who was shaking me takes a step back and watches me cautiously as I climb to my feet._

“ _What the hell is going on here?” I finally manage though the words come out slurred._

“ _You're in Elfland and the Queen just tried to make you eat and drink here.”_

“ _What?”_

“ _That's how she gets you,” the girl, no, the young woman, no the impossibly ageless person, no the – whoever the hell it is I have in front of me, says. “She gets inside your head and gives you what you want and then she cons you into eating or drinking. And once that's happened, well. You're hers then. You want to get the others out? Well, you'll have to help us fight her.”_

_I shudder. It all sounds bizarre but whatever Elfland really is and whoever this Queen might turn out to be, something deep and primal in me is screaming in terror and telling me to run, run, run._

_Because there are steps coming and they do not sound human._

  
  


  
  


_Molly:_

_The Queen is approaching. I can feel the miasma of her anger seep through the trees long before I hear her steps and I would have warned the others but they're sensing it, too._

“ _Right,” Zach says, “I'm going to be back there trying to dig up some trees,” and disappears._

  
  


_The Queen is tall and grand as she steps through the trees, her mantel the deep green of forests that swallow unwary travelers and when she sees us she throws her head back and laughs with the sound of rooks cawing_ _in wintry woods_ _._

“ _What do you want here?” She demands._

_To my surprise it's the policewoman who speaks up first. Of average height, with mousy brown hair and square figure she looks like someone you wouldn't even notice next to the Queen but her voice is loud and clear as she demands:_

“ _You have two of my people here! Give them back!”_

_The Queen laughs again and I can feel the tendrils of her power tugging at my consciousness, can see the human woman rock on her feet with the intensity of that onslaught._

“ _And by what right do you claim them? They came into my realm of their own free will. It is my right to eat their power if I see fit!”_

“ _Oh, come on!” Beverly Brook takes a step forward, fist_ _s_ _clenched at her side.. “What do you need to eat their power for? You're not starved!”_

_She is right, of course, the Queen is thrumming with power as she shows her teeth and hisses, “They came here with shovels of iron and they planted oak trees in my door.” She sounds like a cornered wildcat now as she points to the portal that is visible now because the snow that is falling disappears inside it. “They came with iron and oaks and now my power is leaking! I have EVERY right!”_

  
  


  
  


_Beverly Brook:_

_So the Queen is pissed because some idiot druid boys ended propping open the door to her realm and letting the power drain out. OK, I get that. Still._

“ _We will fix your door for you,” I say sharply, “I fact, Zach is digging these trees up as we speak but you_ will _let my friends go!”_

“ _Oh will I, now?” She demands and I can feel her power tug at me. “How do you claim them, river girl?”_

_She really shouldn't have said that._

_On a sudden impulse I reach out mentally and I can feel Molly's_ _fae_ _magic like a loose live wire right next to me, painful and electric. There is a moment of hesitation and then I can feel it merge with my own, rocking me on my heels. The human woman, who must be one of Peter's colleagues, has her own kind of power even if she has no magic and I reach out to her, too. There is a sense there of stale coffee and asphalt under boots and a fierce protective loyalty. After a moment I can feel the connection form. For a couple of seconds our little triangle is unsteady, too many different kinds of power running through it and pulling at each other but then I can feel something shift and it nearly lifts me off my feet._

_The Queen feels it, too, I can tell by her surprised face._

  
  


_Miriam Stephanopoulos_

“ _I claim them as my brothers in arms!” I suddenly hear myself shout like a character out of a Shakespeare play._

_I have no idea what's going on here but I can feel a power in myself that seems to be coming up from the soles of my feet and pooling into me from the two women beside me. I know with teeth-grinding, jaw-clenching certainty that I'm not leaving two of my fellow police officers with this Queen, whoever she is._

_There is a feeling like a live wire on my skin as the tall white woman next to me shifts and then the sensory impression of water thundering through tunnels as the black girl on my right takes a step forward, too. She seems like a queen now, too, as she points at Peter and shouts: “And I claim him as my beloved!”_

_The face of the icy cold, immensely tall woman in front of me twists and for a moment I think she is going to reach out and slap us._

“ _The_ _n_ _take him,” she finally hisses, “but this one is mine!” And she points to Nightingale._

  
  


  
  


_Molly:_

_I'm crouched over Nightingale in a flash, my teeth bared at the Queen as I speak to her in our language._ You cannot have him!  _I scream at her._ He's mine! I claim him as my consort!

Stupid girl! _The Queen shouts back._ He isn't yours and never will be! You may share his bed but he still thinks of you as a monster!

_I raise myself up to my full height and throw back my head._ He took me in when you lot wouldn't, he has fed me and housed me and he has shared his warmth with me. I claim him and you will have to fight me if you want to take him from me!

_I can feel the Queen tugging at my consciousness again but the power of the two women at my back grounds me, making me impervious to her draw._

_For a moment there is a tense silence as the Queen's power and ours are balanced perfectly against each other and then there is a sudden shift that almost makes me stagger as the force of the Queen's will suddenly disappears._

_When I catch my balance again and shake my hair out of my eyes I realise the Queen is gone._

“ _Hey, I think I finally managed to close the bloody portal!” Zach is yelling from behind me._

_I turn around and see Beverly Brook shaking Peter out of his trance and when I look down at Nightingale he is twitching, too, his eyes opening slowly. I reach down to help him to his feet._


	12. Chapter 12

We stagger ed through the portal between the two uprooted oak saplings 

_and reality snap_ _ped_ _back into coherence again_

As soon as my boots touch ed the familiar ground of the footpath which circles Highgate Wood, I f e ll to my knees and start ed to hurl. 

I hear d someone shout “Peter!” and then Beverly  wa s at my side in an instant holding my shoulder. It t ook me a moment but then the feeling passe d and I  was able to stagger to my feet again.

Next to me Zach and Nightingale  we re trying to  shake the  druid  out of whatever trance that was and I manage d to fumble my mobile out of my pocket and press the override switch that  had  protected it from blowing its microprocessor  in Faerie . 

“Dr Walid? This is Peter, we need you out at Highgate Wood.”

Then I turn ed to Beverly. “Did I just hear you call me your beloved?”

She looked at me for a long moment and there was the faintest of smiles on her face. “There aren't a lot of human connections the Queen recognises as legitimate,” she finally explained. “But a human being consort to a goddess is one of the more traditional ones.”

And she kissed me on the mouth.


End file.
